


how the alpha stole christmas

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: An Abundance of Wolf-flavored Christmas Puns, Angst, Apparently Derek Hale is Capable of Smiling and Laughing, Brutal Mangling of Christmas Song Lyrics, Christmas, Clubbing...You Know...At the Club, Coffee Unfit for Human And/Or Werewolf Consumption, Excessive Movie Quotes, Fluff, Gratuitous Occurrences of the F-Word, M/M, Obscene Amounts of Eye-Rolling, Pack Dynamics, Ridiculous Competitions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-04 20:53:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1085575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So, I’m guessing a hyperactive human probably shouldn’t be challenging supernatural creatures to caffeine fights,” Stiles sighs, and Derek laughs again. Like, full-on, has-to-cover-his-mouth laughs, and Stiles is pretty sure he hears a strangled snort somewhere in there. This night could not be weirder.</p><p>“Don’t take it personally,” Derek finally answers.</p><p>“Well, too bad,” Stiles says definitively, crossing his arms, “I’m taking it personally. We’re going to find something I can beat you at.”</p><p>Derek rolls his eyes. “I’m gonna go out on a limb, here, and say that anything you can beat me at is probably something I’m more than okay with being beaten at.” </p><p>__</p><p>Or, the one where, in the midst of planning a kick-ass Christmas party, Stiles keeps challenging Derek to all sorts of ridiculous competitions, only to find that Derek is, well, kind of a normal guy, after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	how the alpha stole christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Huge, huge, HUGE thanks to my lovely friend Ellie, who read little bits and pieces of this multiple times a day and constantly pep-talked me into finishing much earlier than I'd originally even hoped to!
> 
> This is basically a combination of two fics I had in mind--a Christmas fic, and a fic where Stiles and Derek embark on a ridiculous and funny journey of competing over really stupid things, so I just hope I managed to mesh them together well enough. 
> 
> This is also the first long fic I've ever completed, so feedback is much appreciated! 
> 
> Merry Christmas and Happy Howl-idays to everyone :)

Stiles has one rule. 

Sure, maybe he isn’t exactly a straight-edge rule follower himself, but still. He has one rule, and a pretty good one at that. Don’t fuck around with magic. And, as he finds it necessary to keep pointing out to anyone that appears momentarily unoccupied, if people had listened to him, maybe Lydia would be doing something normal right now, like rereading Stephen Hawking’s _A Brief History of Time_ or developing a new mathematical theorem, instead of staring into space and mumbling about fruit. But, as usual, nobody listens to Stiles.

“It’s like I’m talking to a wall,” he grumbles at Erica, who rolls her eyes as she pushes past him in order to deliver more antidote to Lydia. Stiles pouts, crossing his arms with a huff.

“Oh my god, we get it,” Isaac groans, pointedly looking at Stiles, “we should’ve listened. You win. Now either go grab some more antidote or find somewhere else to sulk.”

That shuts Stiles up, at least for the time being. He makes way for the kitchen, grabs another spoonful of the mixture Allison and Jackson are concocting, and carries it back to Lydia, ladeling it into her mug. She gives him a wobbly smile, eyes glazed over and shiny. Stiles shudders. He makes a few more trips, the pack working in determined silence until Lydia’s mug is full and the ingredients are all used up.

“Now what happens?” Derek asks Allison and Jackson, who had been put in charge of the entire antidote process, considering the Potions Master herself was quite indisposed.

“Now she drinks it, and we wait,” Jackson says, watching his girlfriend with an expression that reads as half-concerned and half-uncomfortable.

“We need to make sure she doesn’t fall asleep,” Allison adds, “or the antidote won’t work properly, and she’ll be stuck like this for a lot longer.”

So that’s how they end up in a circle on the floor of Derek’s loft at two in the morning, the pack members in various states of sprawled-on-the-floor, alternating between actual conversation and trying to keep Lydia awake while the last of the potion wears off.

“Guess you’ll think twice about brain-boosting potions from now on, huh, Lyds?” Stiles teases, poking Lydia’s thigh from where he’s laying next to her on his stomach.

“Hmmm,” Lydia sighs, leaning back to rest her head against Derek’s couch.

Stiles sits up, nudging Lydia to follow so it’s as difficult as possible for her to fall asleep. He glances around the circle at the rest of the pack, takes in an overwhelming number of droopy eyes and slack expressions, and promptly stands up.

“We’re in desperate need of coffee,” he announces, ignoring the slight headrush from standing up so quickly when he’s so tired. “Who’s coming with?”

Mumbles of agreement float his way as his friends start to stir, pushing themselves up from the floor. Derek walks in from the kitchen, where he’d been cleaning up, and shrugs. “Count me in.”

The air in the room immediately goes stale, and every pair of eyes, save Lydia’s and Derek’s, goes wide and round. Allison is the first to break the silence.

“Um, actually, I think someone should stay back with Lydia. I don’t mind. Really,” she insists quickly, scooting over to her best friend and making a show of brushing her hair out of her face.

“I’ll keep Allison company,” Scott chimes in, plopping himself down next to his girlfriend and exhaling heavily.

“Wait, did you say coffee?” Isaac asks slowly, “I thought you said _toffee_. I don’t really like coffee. You guys go ahead.” He flashes his most innocent grin, and somehow it works, even though everyone in the room should be more than immune to it by now.

Jackson, Boyd, and Erica mumble excuses and plant themselves back on the floor, avoiding both Stiles and Derek’s gazes. Derek narrows his eyes, but Stiles shrugs nervously, motioning to the door. 

“Wanna go?” he asks tentatively, voice a few octaves above normal.

Derek nods, face contorted like he’s trying to figure out what the hell is wrong with everyone. “Yeah,” he finally says, “I’ll drive.”

The ride to the coffee shop is (shockingly) silent, and the awkwardness is nearly palpable by the time they arrive. 

“I’ll grab a table,” Derek mutters.

“Oh,” Stiles replies slowly, “I thought we’d just get it to-go and head back to your place.”

“We can do that instead, if you want.”

“Actually, let’s stay. I need a break from Crazytown,” Stiles chuckles, and Derek gives him a slight smile. Right, because tonight wasn’t strange enough already. “I didn’t realize we were staying, though, so I’m gonna hit the bathroom really quick. You can go find a table, or order your coffee, I guess,” he says, and Derek just nods.

When he leaves the bathroom, he glances at the counter and sees that nobody is in line. He then searches the dining area of the shop, spotting Derek sitting in a small booth toward the back of the room. There are two coffees on the table. He makes his way over and sits down across from Derek, raising his eyebrows at the steaming cup in front of him. Derek doesn’t say anything. 

Stiles takes a sip, not sure what to expect, and the hot bitterness of fresh, black coffee envelopes his tastebuds. He smiles into his cup, then narrows his eyes at Derek.

“You know how I take my coffee.”

Derek shrugs. “Werewolf super-hearing.”

“Ah,” Stiles nods. He cocks his head to the side, trying to determine what’s in Derek’s cup just by looking at it.

“More cream and sugar than even a werewolf needs,” Derek says, letting out a huff of air that, coming from anyone else, might’ve sounded like a chuckle.

“Ah,” Stiles says again.

They drink their coffees in silence, Stiles already feeling the caffeine surging through his system and Derek looking as unaffected and bored as ever. Stiles gets up and pauses, looking at Derek expectantly.

“What?” Derek asks.

“I’m getting a refill. They’re free here. You want more?” 

“Is more caffeine really the best thing for you right now?” Derek smirks.

Stiles makes a noise of indignation, leaning forward and slapping his hands on the table.

“ADHD jokes. Real funny, Derek. I bet I can drink more coffee without losing my shit than you can, Mr. Calm-And-Stoic.” He’s all but in Derek’s face now, and the Alpha’s placid expression still hasn’t changed, except for a slight twist upwards in the corners of his lips.

Derek hands him his cup with a shrug. “You’re on.”

Stiles goes to the counter and gets the refills, figuring he may as well put the cream and sugar in for Derek, since Derek had paid enough attention to make sure Stiles got his coffee the way he likes.

But Stiles is bored. And Stiles is a little bit mean. And Stiles is beyond sick of Derek’s terminal, easy silence and stupid arrogance. So Stiles, as per Derek’s vague request, dumps a good quarter of the bottle of creamer and at least five sugar packets into Derek’s coffee, stirs it to lump-free perfection, and tries to hide his smirk as he brings it back to the table. Derek doesn’t offer so much as a “thank you,” taking the cup from Stiles’ hands and bringing it immediately to his lips.

Stiles watches, waiting. Derek doesn’t react. Well, not the way Stiles had envisioned. Derek actually smiles, quirking his head to the left.

“This is actually perfect, Stiles,” he says brightly, “Wow. Thanks.” 

Stiles stares at him, mouth falling open.

“Now what?” 

“I put, like, the entire mix-ins bar in your coffee. That drink is not fit for human consumption. Or,” he lowers his voice to a whisper, even though the coffeehouse is empty, “werewolf consumption, for that matter.”

Derek laughs. “I told you, I like way too much cream and sugar. Good effort though.” The last part is highlighted by Derek’s signature condescending smirk, and Stiles has a sudden urge to toss a cupful of searing hot coffee in the Alpha’s face.

“Whatever,” Stiles grumbles, “I can still hold my caffeine better than you can.”

“We’ll see,” Derek counters, raising his eyebrows.

 

*

Stiles cracks halfway through his third cup.

He’s jittery as all hell, fingers tapping out of control on the table, leg shaking fast enough that he’s surprised he’s not chirping like a damn cricket.

And Derek fucking Hale is sitting across the table, cool as a cucumber, nearly finished with cup number four and smiling serenely.

“I, um,” Stiles says, and Derek’s smile softens. The Alpha reaches across the table and plucks Stiles’ coffee out of his hand.

“I think you’re done for tonight,” he says gently, placing his other hand on Stiles’ wrist, stopping him from drumming on the table.

“Yeah,” Stiles sighs, deflated. Derek’s palm is unusually warm, a mix of holding a hot coffee cup and natural werewolf thermal superiority. He allows Derek to firmly hold his wrist in place, slowly dragging his eyes up to make contact with Derek’s. They exchange a look, intense and somewhat disorienting, and then Derek removes his hand and the moment is over.

“So, I’m guessing a hyperactive human probably shouldn’t be challenging supernatural creatures to caffeine fights,” Stiles sighs, and Derek laughs again. Like, full-on, has-to-cover-his-mouth laughs, and Stiles is pretty sure he hears a strangled snort somewhere in there. This night could not be weirder.

“Don’t take it personally,” Derek finally answers.

“Well, too bad,” Stiles says definitively, crossing his arms, “I’m taking it personally. We’re going to find something I can beat you at.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “I’m gonna go out on a limb, here, and say that anything you can beat me at is probably something I’m more than okay with being beaten at.” 

Stiles stares at him, clenching his teeth. “You are the rudest person I’ve ever met. And that includes all of the evil villains we’ve killed in the past couple of years, Derek.”

Derek raises his eyebrows again. “Fine, what else do you want to lose at?”

“You’re so-- I’m not just gonna-- ugh!” Stiles sputters, gesticulating wildly.

“Well?” 

“I don’t know, Derek. I don’t just walk around thinking of things I’m better than you at, believe it or not,” Stiles grumbles. Derek’s eyebrows inch up even higher.

“Okay, fine. Maybe I do. But they’re all, I don’t know, stupid.”

“Try me.”

“I can probably beat you at movie quotes. Have you ever even seen a movie?”

Derek’s eyes are going to roll right out of his stupid face at this point.

“Okay, movie quotes it is, then. Have you seen The Breakfast Club?” It’s one of Stiles’ favorite movies, and he practically has it memorized. There’s no way he can lose.

“Yeah,” Derek says quietly, “It’s one of Cora’s favorites. Used to be my mom’s.”

Stiles feels the air rush out of him like a balloon, heat rising to his cheeks.

“Derek,” he says softly, “we don’t have to-”

“It’s fine,” Derek interrupts, stoic expression poured right back over his features, “I’ve seen it, like, a hundred times. Bring it on.”

Stiles is about to ask if Derek is sure, but studies Derek’s face and decides against it. He’s learned by now that pushing is the last thing you should do with Derek, especially when it comes to emotions.

“Tomorrow, my house?” Stiles suggests, “We should probably get back to everyone.” Derek nods again, and they get into the Camaro and drive back to the loft, once again silent except for Stiles’ tapping foot, the last remnants of caffeine still surging through his system.

When they reach the loft, Lydia is back to normal, if not incredibly groggy. But then again, so is the rest of the pack.

“We wanted you to make the final call before we let her sleep,” Boyd tells Derek, motioning to Lydia.

“I’m fine,” she mumbles, “let me go to bed, ugh.”

Derek nods at the group. “She’s okay.”

Erica, Boyd, and Isaac decide to crash at Derek’s, Jackson carries Lydia to his Porsche, and it’s Stiles’ duty to drive Allison and Scott home. They’re cuddling and lethargic in the backseat, and Stiles flashes a soft smile at the rear view mirror, not even bothering to chastise them for their lack of seatbelts. He delivers them each to their houses, waiting patiently for Scott to say his excessive goodbyes at Allison’s, and musses Scott’s hair when he finally drops him off at home. He parks the Jeep in the empty garage, whispers a silent prayer to the sky that his Dad is on nightwatch and therefore won’t hear him coming home so late, and makes his way up to his room with every intention of passing out dramatically on his bed.

But he can’t stop thinking about Derek, and the rainbow of emotions that had poured over his face when Stiles had brought up The Breakfast Club. Or, even freakier, the amount of times Derek had laughed, more at Stiles’ jokes than at his expense. So yeah, it takes him some time to fall asleep, due to the remainder of caffeine in his system and the reminder that Derek Hale will be showing up at his house tomorrow to watch a movie together. But eventually he drifts off, running lines from the movie in his head in preparation. Derek is so going down.

*

Stiles bolts out of the bed the next morning, eyes still half-closed, and makes a beeline for the bathroom, worried he’s going to piss himself. Come to think of it, it’s a wonder he didn’t wet the bed during the night, after downing all that coffee. But he’s safe, and it’s the small victories that matter. He walks back into his room and tries to rub the sleep out of his eyes, nearly missing the enormous Alpha werewolf eyeing him from his desk chair. 

“Oh my _god_ ,” he shrieks, stumbling backwards until his back hits the wall.

“Morning,” Derek says slowly, face blossoming into somewhat sheepish amusement.

“What the hell, Derek?” Stiles says, voice still raised. He stomps forward until he and Derek are mere inches apart, eyes wide. “Were you watching me _sleep_?”

Derek raises his hands in defense, and his eyebrows follow suit. “You didn’t tell me what time to come over. And normal people don’t sleep until noon.”

Stiles glances at the clock, and, sure enough, it’s 12:14. “As you may recall, I was up until ass o’clock last night,” he grumbles.

“I tried to find the movie on your shelf, but it’s not there,” Derek says, indicating Stiles’ shelf of DVDs.

Stiles stares at him.

“What?” Derek asks, confused, “was I supposed to bring it?”

Stiles laughs, risking a quick pat on Derek’s shoulder. “You’re so technologically incapable it’s actually kind of sad.” 

Derek glares at him, and Stiles’ hand bolts back to his side.

“I’m just saying, Derek. We’ll stream it online.”

“Whatever,” Derek mutters, and Stiles rolls his eyes. He grabs his laptop, brings it over to his bed, and freezes.

“How do you want to, um,” he says stupidly, motioning to the laptop and then the bed. Panic flashes through Derek’s eyes, but it’s gone so quickly that Stiles is pretty sure it was just his imagination. Derek stands up and begins removing his shoes, and then nods at Stiles, motioning for him to make room on the bed.

Okay. So he and Derek are going to cuddle and watch a movie. Stiles is totally not freaking out.

He settles himself into the corner, figuring it’s better to let Derek decide how much space will remain between them. For all of the piling and cuddling the pack does, Derek doesn’t usually involve himself. Especially not with Stiles. So when Derek joins Stiles on his bed and scoots close enough that the entire lengths of their inside legs are slightly touching, Stiles can’t help the hot blood rushing to his face. He’s sure his heartbeat is skyrocketing, which means Derek can hear it. So he tries to focus on going through the bookmarks on his laptop to find the best streaming site for The Breakfast Club.

Derek studies him while he pulls up the page and waits for it to load. “Is this legal?” he asks seriously. Stiles snorts.

“Not really, but I think it’s pretty low on the spectrum considering,” he laughs.

“Are we gonna get caught?”

Stiles finally turns to look at him. “Derek,” he says slowly, “people all over the world do this, like, all the time. I promise you, this is absolutely the least of our worries.”

“Okay,” Derek says.

They decide to grab a sheet of paper and keep a tally of correctly executed lines. The opening credits roll, and Stiles gives a low whistle. “You’re going down, Hale.”

Derek lets out a quick laugh. “We’ll see,” he says, just like the night before. And suddenly Stiles isn’t so confident.

*

Stiles loses again.

“In my defense,” he half-yells, trying to project over Derek’s laughs, “it was really close. You only beat me by three lines.”

“But I still beat you,” Derek replies smugly, and for all that Stiles used to internally whine about never seeing Derek’s smile, he would be perfectly content if it disappeared for the rest of eternity.

The laptop is still resting on their lower thighs, and Stiles can’t help but notice that this is the closest the two of them have ever been for such a long period of time (not to mention while both of them were fully-conscious, and with Stiles not getting beat up or threatened in some fashion). He rests his head against the headboard and sighs, letting the past 97 minutes wash over him.

Derek had not only shocked Stiles with his knowledge of the movie lines, but he had delivered them fully in-character, impressions almost uncanny. When he did a flawless impersonation of Brian’s “Chicks cannot hold their smoke--that’s what it is,” Stiles had lost it, doubling over and laughing so hard that it left his abdomen sore. 

So Derek Hale drinks disgustingly sweet coffee, watches good movies, and is apparently capable of laughing and smiling. Stiles’ head is swimming with the amount of knowledge he’s gained in the past twelve hours.

“You know what this means, don’t you?” he says finally, glancing at Derek.

“Hmm?”

“I need to find something I can beat you at.”

Derek rolls his eyes, but this time it’s less like exasperation and more like fondness. Which is weird in and of itself.

“I’m guessing you have something in mind?” he says, trying to hide his amusement.

“Well, not yet,” Stiles answers, “but I’ll think of something. It can’t be that hard.”

Derek snorts. “Whatever you say.”

The Alpha pushes himself off the bed and makes his way to the window, climbing up and sticking a leg out. He stops, catching Stiles’ eye.

“You should really lock this at night,” he says seriously, and then he’s gone.

*

October slides in quickly, the air growing noticeably more brisk and leaves painting themselves brilliant oranges, scarlets, and golds. The first semester of senior year is a breeze compared to junior year, both in terms of supernatural occurrences and petty human things like test scores and college applications.

The weekly pack meeting is well underway, and since things have been relatively quiet (not that anyone’s complaining) they’re mostly gossiping and joking with one another around giant mouthfuls of pizza.

Stiles glances around the room, full and content, and watches his friends interact. It never fails to blow his mind how, only two years ago, most of them wouldn’t have bothered to give each other the time of day, and now they practically get anxious if they’re apart for too long. And he knows that “pack” is inherently a wolf concept, an instinctual, animal (or half-animal) thing that, as a human, he shouldn’t be able to understand. But he does. They’re more than a group of friends, here. More than family, even. 

Watching the pack reminds him of family holidays, back when he was a kid. Back before his mom got sick. They were bombastic and crazy, yelling things across the table and laughing and spitting little bits of food everywhere, and there was always inevitably some argument going on somewhere, but Stiles loved it. He loved sitting in a room with a group of people that loved him unconditionally, loved each other unconditionally, and would always be there for each other. At least, that’s what it felt like at the time.

And that’s what it feels like now. But they have more than blood tying them together, they have experiences, secrets and fears and memories that no outsider can ever fully understand. And suddenly he’s overwhelmed by it, how much he loves every single person in this room, the ones like Scott and Lydia whom he’s loved for years, and the ones like Isaac and Boyd and Allison, even Jackson, and, strangest of all, even Derek, whom he’d only been lumped with due to circumstance. He loves this motley crew of humans and werewolves and banshees and whatever the fuck else. They’re his best friends, his family, his pack.

So that’s where the idea comes from, really. And once Stiles Stilinski gets an idea in his head, then damn straight it’s going to happen. So dinner finishes and, as usual, nobody makes any indication of planning to clean up until Jackson rolls his eyes, grumbles insults at everyone, and does it all himself. Then everyone meanders off to do their own thing, mostly catching up with people who had been at the other side of the table during dinner.

He finds Lydia comparing lipstick shades with Erica, waits patiently for them to finish talking about, well, whatever it is, and taps Lydia on the shoulder.

“Hey, what’s up?” she asks with a bright smile.

“Can I talk to you for a second?” he asks, smiling back at her to alleviate any concern.

She lets him guide her to an empty corner of the room, curiosity painted across her features.

“I have an idea, and I need your help,” he says, and she’s already shaking her head.

“No.”

He waves his arms, raising his voice to talk over her. “Lydia, wait, listen-”

“No, Stiles.”

“Just _listen_ to me. Please. Hear me out. I think you’ll actually like this one. Really,” he pleads, and she purses her lips.

“I want to throw a Christmas party for the pack, and I want you to be my co-party planner.”

“That’s…” she says slowly, “actually not a bad idea.”

He smiles, wide and toothy, and envelopes her in a hug. 

“Really? You’ll help?” 

He can feel her giggling in his arms, and he lets her go only to see that her smile is as big as his own. She nods excitedly.

“I’m glad you asked me so early. We have a lot of work to do,” she says, and turns to walk back toward the rest of the pack. “Text me over the weekend and we’ll get started.”

“Thanks, Lyds!” he calls after her, the warmth in his belly softening everything around the edges.

*

“I don’t know, dude. There’s really not much you can do that a werewolf can’t beat you at,” Scott says pointedly at lunch the next week, glancing at Isaac and Boyd to gauge their agreement. The two boys nod, eyeing Stiles with badly masked pity.

“Maybe not physical stuff,” Stiles says, determined, “but I’m witty. I’m clever. I’m quick on my feet. There has to be something I can beat Derek at.”

“This is stupid,” Isaac sighs, “see who can go longer without crying while you’re chopping onions or something. I’m sick of hearing about this.”

Stiles’ eyes widen, and he looks over at Isaac. “That’s a great idea,” he says excitedly.

“I was jokin-”

“Who cares?” Stiles interrupts, “It’s perfect. Unless there’s some sort of werewolf immunity to crying over chopped onions that I don’t know about?” The werewolves roll their eyes in unison, but that’s all the confirmation Stiles needs.

He shows up at Derek’s place after school with a grocery bag full of raw onions. 

“What are those?” Derek asks, alarmed, and Stiles raises his hand to calm him.

“They’re just onions, Derek. Normal ones, from the grocery store. Relax.”

Derek’s expression immediately shifts from worried to suspicious. 

“You know vampires aren’t real, right?” he asks pointedly.

“First of all, that has yet to be proven,” Stiles says, pushing past him and making his way toward the kitchen, “and second of all, this has nothing to do with the supernatural.”

“Then what’s going on?” Derek asks, following the boy.

“I found something to beat you at,” Stiles announces happily.

“If you think I’m eating raw onions-”

“Not eating, Derek, don’t be gross. Chopping.”

“Chopping,” Derek repeats, and seriously, how have his eyebrows not flown off of his face yet?

“Whoever can go the longest without crying wins.”

“Please tell me this is a joke,” Derek says, completely deadpan.

Stiles grins. “Nope, dead serious. Unless you’re afraid you’ll lose. I’ve sort of always wanted to see you cry.”

Derek doesn’t answer, yanking one of the drawers open and pulling out two sizable chopping knives. He hands one to Stiles, handle first, and Stiles rests it next to the onions he’s pulling from the bag while Derek pulls out two cutting boards. Stiles gives Derek half of the onions and keeps the rest for himself, cracking his knuckles in preparation.

“What are the rules?” Derek asks, tone suggesting that he can’t believe he’s being subjected to this.

“Chop the onions. Don’t stop. Don’t cry,” Stiles says simply, baring his teeth in the way that he’d picked up from the wolves.

“Count us off, then,” Derek sighs.

“Ready, set, go!” Stiles yells, and immediately attacks the first onion, gritting his teeth and blinking excessively, fighting the tears that are already beginning to form in the corner of his eyes.

He doesn’t look at Derek because he’s afraid if he looks anywhere but the onion he’ll either cry or chop a finger off, but Derek’s steady stream of chops against the counter don’t phase him. Stiles cooks for his dad nearly every night. Stiles is used to chopping onions. Derek wouldn’t know domesticity if it bit him in his tight canine ass. Which, of course, is hardly his fault. 

Shit. He didn’t even say it out loud, but he feels guilty, blaming Derek for not knowing how to live with a family that he doesn’t have anymore.

The first tear hits the counter with a plop loud enough for a werewolf to pick up on, even underneath the sound of two frantic knives. Derek stops chopping at looks at Stiles matter-of-factly, not even bothering to be smug, and, really, damn Stiles for getting distracted too easily.

“Are we done?” Derek asks, voice laced with boredom. 

“Yeah, I guess,” Stiles answers dejectedly, dumping the onions back in the bag. Might as well use them for dinner tonight. He walks to the door to let himself out, but Derek is behind him, holding it open.

“Let me know if you think of anything else,” he says quickly, closing the door. 

*

Two weeks later, they order Chinese for the pack meeting. 

“Nobody touch anything!” Stiles yells, causing the pack to freeze mid-siege.

“What’s wrong?” Allison asks, taking a step back from the food like it’s radioactive.

“Nothing,” Stiles says, “Derek and I just need to do something first.” He’s met by eight blank stares. Stiles reaches into a bag and pulls out two small cartons of white rice and two packets of chopsticks, setting one of each in front of Derek’s seat at the head of the table.

“We’re going to see who can finish the rice faster using just chopsticks,” Stiles says with a cheery smile. “Good luck with those meaty fingers, Derek.”

The rest of the pack stares at Stiles like he’s lost his mind, and then slowly roll their collective gaze over to Derek, who’s taking his seat at the table. He rolls his eyes. “Just humor him,” he tells the pack, and they begrudgingly sit down to watch.

Boyd counts them off and they attack their bowls. Stiles is shoveling chunks of rice into his mouth, waggling his eyebrows at the pack, but they’re watching Derek. Stiles sneaks a glance at his competitor and nearly chokes on his rice. Derek is expertly catapulting food into his mouth, hands even more practiced than Stiles’ own. 

Growling into his container, Stiles tries to speed up, but the chopsticks begin to slip out of his fingers. Derek finishes with a sigh, dropping his own sticks on the table. Stiles only has a few bites left, but it’s over.

“Okay, we’ve proven that Stiles sucks. Can we eat now?” Scott grumbles, and Stiles just sighs, nodding. Derek catches his eye and flashes another smug grin.

“Shut up,” Stiles mutters, and Derek huffs a laugh to acknowledge that he heard.

After dinner Stiles approaches Derek, pressing a finger to his massive chest.

“I’m gonna find something, Derek,” he says, “I’m gonna beat you at something so bad.” Derek nods, amused. “Okay, Stiles,” he says, pushing past him and walking away.

Before Stiles can yell a few choice words in the Alpha’s direction, Lydia is standing in front of him.

“So I was thinking,” she says, “this is probably where we should do the party.”

“Why?” Stiles asks, glancing around the loft. For all that the pack had tried to make it homey, it’s still pretty bare and uninviting to those who don’t spend much time there.

“It’s the biggest space we have where we can drink without getting caught,” she reasons, “and allows for optimal decoration choices.”

Stiles nods, biting his lip. “Good point, but do you think Derek will agree to it?”

“I wasn’t really planning on asking his permission,” she says, which, of course she wasn’t. She flounces away with a smile, and Stiles surveys the loft again, trying to imagine a Christmas tree and excessive holiday decorations. The picture isn’t really coming together in his mind, but then again, it’s Lydia Martin who’s going to be doing the decorating, and if Lydia wants something to work, it will.

*

Stiles is about to whoop Scott’s ass at Mario Karts for the fourth time within the hour when the idea hits him. He doesn’t say anything, concentrating on dodging the shells his best friend is haphazardly tossing at Yoshi, and besides, Scott gets pissy when you try to talk to him during Mario Karts.

Stiles glides across the Rainbow Road finish line and drops his controller in his lap with a satisfying thud. Scott lifts his arm like he’s about to chuck his across the room, but an eyebrow raise from his competitor stops him mid-toss, and he slumps back against Stiles’ bed.

“Go ahead and throw it, if you want,” Stiles says, “but unless Deaton’s planning on giving you another raise I don’t think you can afford to pay for another window and controller.”

“Shut up,” Scott mumbles, but he’s unable to hide his smile, and sure enough Stiles’ lips are curling at the corners to match.

“You’d crush Derek at this,” Scott says thoughtfully, nodding to the TV.

“Scott, buddy, you’re a genius,” Stiles says excitedly, because of course he’d crush Derek at video games. He can’t even picture Derek playing video games.

“You think he’ll agree to it?” Scott asks, and Stiles shrugs. “I think he’ll do anything to make this whole thing stop.”

And that’s how Derek Hale ends up in Stiles’ room again the next weekend, the two leaning back against Stiles’ bed, waiting for the game to load on the TV screen in front of them. Stiles had been sure to give Derek a specific time to show up to avoid any possible uncomfortable situations, of course, and Derek had obliged, waiting until exactly one in the afternoon to crawl through Stiles’ bedroom window.

“We have a front door, you know,” Stiles had laughed, watching Derek’s foot nearly catch on the windowsill. 

“Didn’t know if your dad was home,” Derek had shrugged, and that was that.

What Stiles hadn’t counted on was the size of Derek’s hands. It’s not that he didn’t know how big they were, but he’d never really paid much attention. But now, watching Derek’s thick, agile palms wrap around the controller with ease, fingers dancing over the buttons and joysticks, well, it’s distracting. So Stiles accidentally picks Princess Peach instead of his faithful Yoshi, and apparently it’s the funniest thing Derek’s ever seen.

“Shut up, I clicked the wrong one,” Stiles grumbles bitterly, and Derek is cracking up next to him, covering his face with those obnoxious hands, wheezing, “sure, sure” in between hearty guffaws.

“Whatever, let’s just play. Princess or not, I’m gonna win.”

This one will be easy, Stiles reasons, because he’s only lost at Mario Karts maybe four times in his whole life. And he’s willing to bet Derek hasn’t spent much time playing video games, even back when he was a kid, because Derek was popular and an athlete, and was probably too busy doing popular kid things and athletic things and werewolf things to have time to play Mario Karts. 

Stiles would’ve won, really, he would’ve, if it weren’t for those goddamn hands.

He’d shaken his head and pinpointed his focus, giving a mental pep-talk to Princess Peach. (“Look, Peachy, just because you weren’t my first pick doesn’t mean you’re not entirely capable of crossing that finish line before Bowser--of course Derek chose Bowser--you can do this. Show the patriarchy who’s boss.”)

He’d even been in the lead for a solid amount of time, until about a third of the way through the second lap. Derek had been hot on Peach’s tail for most of the race, except for when Stiles had strategically dropped a banana peel in Bowser’s path and then hightailed it forward. Derek had deployed a red shell, though, snorting in response to Stiles’ angry curses as he waited to be dropped back on the track.

But then Stiles had looked over at Derek, and was once again mesmerized by those stupid hands, clicking and twisting like he was playing an instrument instead of a video game, and Stiles has to wonder if Derek used to play an instrument, like the piano, maybe. And then Stiles is imagining Derek playing the piano, fingers light and quick and stretched, warm skin painting the black and ivory keys. Derek would probably like classical music, he thinks, though he can’t really articulate why, and--

And Derek was on his third lap while Stiles hadn’t even gotten three-quarters of the way done with his second, and Derek was leaning forward, shoulders hunched, frantically clicking buttons and spinning the joystick.

And it’s ridiculous, because Stiles was about to lose at Mario Karts to Derek Hale. That just wasn’t happening. So he’d stopped looking at Derek’s hands, had vowed to stop looking at Derek in general, and focused on the screen. He’d thrown in all his tricks, maybe even a few cheats that he’d picked up over the years, and, sure enough, he’d caught back up to Derek.

“Come on, Peachy,” he’d prompted, and Derek snorted.

Stiles glanced over at Derek, who was leaning even more forward now, tongue slightly poking out of the side of his mouth, and it was actually kind of cute. Like, endearing cute. Like a puppy. Not attractive cute. Stiles doesn’t find Derek attractive cute.

Stiles did, however, find that he was winning. A smirk had begun to slide across his lips, and he’d leaned back, letting himself relax. The first kart had crossed the finish line, and Stiles and Derek had both pumped their fists in the air and yelled, “YES!”

So now they’re staring at each other, two confused expressions and two sets of narrowed eyebrows facing one another while the video game soundtrack is running on loop three feet away.

“Stiles,” Derek says carefully, “I won.”

“No, you…” Stiles trails off, looking at the screen. Sure enough, Princess Peach is sitting in her kart, not moving, on the bottom half of the screen, and Bowser and all of the computer-generated characters on the top half are celebrating on the other side of the finish line.

“Well, fuck,” Stiles says.

“You were watching the wrong screen,” Derek says, and there’s a gentle understanding in his voice, “I used to do it all the time.”

“You mean you actually play video games?” Stiles says, incredulous.

Derek laughs. “Of course I did. I was a kid once, you know.”

“I know,” Stiles insists, “but, didn’t you, you know, have more important things to worry about? Like, wolfy things, or girls, or being loved by everyone? Back then, I mean.”

“Believe it or not, Stiles, I had a pretty normal childhood, wolves aside.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Laura used to play this with me all the time when we were kids. Beat me for years until I decided enough was enough. She stopped playing with me after I started creaming her all the time though--always was a bit of a sore loser.” Derek’s voice gets increasingly quiet, like he’s revealing too much, and his face goes red. So Derek, in fact, did play video games when he was a kid.

And, really, that would’ve been an awesome thing to know before Stiles challenged Derek to Mario Karts.

“What else don’t I know about you?” he accuses, and immediately regrets it because, well, there’s a lot. He knows that.

Derek doesn’t even bother answering the question, just throws a leg over the windowsill and slinks outside, and Stiles hears the loud thud of Derek’s feet hitting the grass. There’s something twisting in his stomach, but it’s sweet, soft and tickling, and it feels all too much like an emotion he has no intention of touching right now, so he flops onto his bed and tries to think of something that he’s better at than Derek Hale.

*

Halloween is a quiet affair mostly consisting of junk food, trashy horror films, and obscene amounts of cuddling. As Lydia puts it, “Let’s lay low tonight and let the fake monsters take care of the scare quota.” And so they do. November hits like a bumper car, Halloween decorations immediately swapped with wreaths, snowflakes, and candy canes.

“It’s like nobody’s ever heard of the entire month of November,” Jackson whines, midway through his annual rant.

“Who cares? I love Christmas,” Erica counters, and Jackson rolls his eyes.

“Boyd, Erica, and I are actually planning on taking advantage of this extra-long Christmas and we’re gonna go see if they’ll let us sit on Santa’s lap at the mall tomorrow,” Isaac says with a grin, “Any of you wanna join us?”

Lydia scoffs. “Don’t ever use ‘Santa’ and ‘extra-long’ in the same sentence again, please.”

“Have some Christmas spirit, Lyds!” Scott teases, elbowing Lydia lightly. 

“Not funny,” she grumbles, but a smile is making its way across her lips regardless.

“What am I missing, here?” Allison interjects, glancing around the room. She turns her head to look up at Scott from where she’s leaning on his legs.

“Lydia harbors a personal vendetta against Kris Kringle himself,” Stiles explains, dodging Lydia’s half-hearted attempt at kicking him in the shin. Her head is resting on his thigh, body curled inward so she can see the rest of the group.

“Do explain,” Allison prompts, flashing a grin at Lydia, who’s sticking her tongue out.

“In third grade Lydia figured out that Santa doesn’t exist,” Scott elaborates, smiling as Lydia turns her face into Stiles’ leg in embarrassment, “and she told our whole class. Everyone started crying and our teacher was, like, way overwhelmed, and kinda hated her for the rest of the year.”

“Not my fault!” Lydia insists, but she’s giggling along with everyone else.

Jackson has to leave early because he has swim practice at six the next morning, so Stiles drives Lydia home.

“I have good news!” she announces brightly.

“Lay it on me,” Stiles grins, pumping his fist.

“I have the invitations designed,” she says, pulling up a picture on her phone, “you just need to tell me what you want them to say.”

They’re flawless, naturally, just the right mix of classy and cute, the reds and greens complementing one another perfectly. Stiles awards Lydia with an awkward one-armed side hug while he waits for the light to turn green.

“I definitely want it to say ‘Happy Howl-idays,’” he says thoughtfully, ignoring Lydia’s groan. “And definitely something about not being allowed into the party unless you’re wearing an ugly Christmas sweater. Santa hats are optional.”

“You’re the boss,” Lydia sighs, but her expression is fond, not annoyed.

*

“Okay, Scott, try it one more time,” Stiles says slowly, trying to hide his exasperation but failing miserably. “What’s the equation for momentum?”

“Uh, P equals MV, right?” Scott asks with a wince, and Stiles nods. 

“Okay,” Lydia interjects calmly, “so if a twenty kilogram object is going ten meters per second, then what’s its momentum?”

“200 kilogram-meters per second,” Scott answers definitively, and Stiles and Lydia release a collective sigh.

“Finally,” Stiles grumbles, and Lydia and Scott nod. 

“Can we be done for the day?” Scott whines, and his friends roll their eyes.

“Sure,” Lydia says, waving her hand to dismiss Scott from her room.

“I’m gonna go pick up Allison, see you guys later!” he calls over his shoulder as he leaves.

Stiles pushes himself to sitting on Lydia’s enormous mattress, but her hand jerks out, grabbing onto his wrist and holding him still.

“What?” he asks, following her tug.

“We have work to do,” she says, like it’s obvious. She pulls a binder off the shelf above her bed, and Stiles sees that it’s labeled “Christmas Party Stuff.” He bounces excitedly as she opens it and starts pulling out sheets of paper.

“Okay,” she begins, “I have most of the logistics under control, you know, food and utensils and that kind of thing. I wanted your input for decorations, and a final draft of what you want the invitations to say so I can print them and send them out.”

“The decorations should be….Christmas-y,” Stiles says, grimacing. Lydia lightly smacks his forehead, and he laughs. “I don’t know the first thing about decorating, Lyds. Like that’s surprising to you. Do whatever you want, just make it festive. Like, classic Christmas party, the kind my mom used to throw. Lights and stockings and a nice, elegant tree, none of those cheesy ornaments--well, maybe a few. Christmas music in the background.”

“Is that why you’re doing this?” Lydia asks cautiously, knowing that she’s close to overstepping a boundary, “your mom?”

“A little,” Stiles nods, “but it’s more about the pack. I think we deserve a celebration, you know? For everything we’ve been through and all the ass we’ve kicked. How close we’ve all gotten.”

Lydia smiles, big and genuine, the kind of smile Stiles loves to take credit for. “Looks like Stilinski has a heart after all,” she says wryly, and he leaps forward to slap a hand across her mouth.

“If you tell anyone, I’ll have to kill you,” he growls into her ear. “Or, even better, I’ll rip your throat out. With my teeth.” They’re cracking up, giggling and squirming on the bed like a pair of little kids.

“Speaking of the big ball of joy, don’t think I haven’t noticed all the time you’ve been spending with him lately,” Lydia says pointedly, and Stiles’ face immediately heats up.

“What are you insinuating?” he asks, but it’s more like a shriek, voice climbing several octaves.

“Oh, nothing” Lydia says innocently, “except that you _liiiiike_ him.”

“D-Derek?” Stiles sputters, and Lydia’s expression says that’s all confirmation she needs.

“It’s about time,” she says matter-of-factly, shrugging.

“What are you _talking_ about?” Stiles cries, scooting back a few inches as if Lydia’s insanity is contagious.

“Oh, please,” Lydia admonishes, “you think I didn’t notice that you stopped fawning over me right around the time you and Derek started spending more time together?”

“That’s not even a little bit true,” Stiles maintains, internally willing his vocal cords to cooperate.

“Uh huh,” she answers sardonically, “so you haven’t been obsessing over finding something to beat him at?”

“That doesn’t mean I _like_ him, Lydia,” using that tone of condescension that he knows drives her up the wall, “it means I want to see him lose. To me. Badly.”

“Whatever,” Lydia says dismissively, “my point is that I have an idea.”

“I’m listening.”

“What’s something Derek Hale will never get a grasp on, probably for the rest of eternity?” she prompts.

“Manners?”

“Modern technology. Well, manners, too,” she concedes, “but when’s the last time you saw him successfully work a computer?”

“Good point. What’s the plan?” Stiles nods, intrigued.

“What else does he absolutely deplore?”

“The human condition?”

“Research.”

Wait.

“You want me to out-research Derek?” Stiles asks, skeptical, “That’s your brilliant idea?”

“Yeah,” Lydia says simply. Stiles considers it, beginning to nod.

“Details?” he says.

“I’ll give you both an identical passage written in Latin, and whoever correctly translates it first wins. I’m gonna have to ban Google Translate, though, because that’s borderline unfair advantage. Plus it’s total crap.”

“Lyds, you’re a genius,” Stiles says seriously, wrapping her in his arms.

“Duh,” she answers, leaning into him with a smile.

*

Beacon Hills Public Library is open until eleven on weeknights, and because the pack has spent their fair share of weeknights doing research on all things supernatural, they know it won’t be crowded. So Lydia, Derek, and Stiles show up at 9:30, and Stiles is ready. So ready.

“Good luck,” he says to Derek, “you’ll need it.” Because Stiles, without a doubt, is going to win this time.

So Derek's surprised him a few times, has a few hidden, admittedly normal talents that conveniently surfaced just in time to whoop his ass. But research? This is Stiles' domain. This is his life's work, right here, his contribution to the effort to minimize the damage of the supernatural. Derek plays his own part, of course. But that part tends appear more as keeping everyone safe and roaring a lot, while Stiles sticks his face in a book or in front of a computer screen and does the research.

Lydia hands them each identical sheets of paper, written in what Stiles can only assume is flawless Latin. She lays out the rules--no Google Translate, the translation doesn’t have to be perfect, but it has to be close (Lydia will be the judge), no cell phones allowed, no leaving the library.

“Ready, set, go,” Lydia says, bored. Derek walks off to some back corner of the non-fiction section, and Stiles turns to his computer, cracking his knuckles.

He finds a nice website where he can type in the words one by one and get a list of the closest possible translations, and it’s not necessarily the most efficient process, but it sure as hell beats flipping through a book. He sets to work, finding a nice rhythm, sorting through the sentences to select the closest translations. He’s got this.

“Done,” Derek says softly about an hour later, and Stiles turns around, shit-eating grin already plastered across his face.

“Give up, Derek? I don’t blame you. This stuff isn’t easy, especially without the internet,” he sneers, waggling his eyebrows.

“No,” Derek says, “I finished.”

“Wait. What?”

Lydia yanks Derek’s translation out of his hands and glances it over, smirking. 

“He’s got it pretty much perfect, Stiles,” she says apologetically. Stiles walks over to the table and rips the sheet of paper out of Lydia’s hands, pouring over it intensely. It reads:  
 _  
“-You arrogant son of a bitch.  
-Would you just stay with me?  
-Stay with you? What for? Look at us, we're already fighting.  
-Well that's what we do, we fight... You tell me when I am being an arrogant son of a bitch and I tell you when you are a pain in the ass. Which you are, 99% of the time. I'm not afraid to hurt your feelings. You have like a 2 second rebound rate, then you're back doing the next pain-in-the-ass thing.  
-So what?  
-So it's not gonna be easy. It's gonna be really hard. We're gonna have to work at this every day, but I want to do that because I want you. I want all of you, for ever, you and me, every day. Will you do something for me, please? Just picture your life for me? 30 years from now, 40 years from now? What's it look like? If it's with him, go. Go! I lost you once, I think I can do it again. If I thought that's what you really wanted. But don't you take the easy way out.”_

“Lydia, what the hell even is this?” Stiles asks bitterly, flinging the paper back at Derek.

“It’s from the Notebook,” Derek snorts, eyes widening as soon as the words leave his mouth. Stiles and Lydias’ heads snap toward him, and he turns faintly red.

“Laura,” he offers as an explanation, and Stiles and Lydia just nod.

“Well,” Lydia announces, “I’m out of ideas. Can we all just agree that Stiles sucks and be done with this?”

“I very much resent you for that,” Stiles says, “and we’re going to find something. There’s some reputable skill out there I have that Derek doesn’t, that can’t be compensated for with books and brawn and wolf powers.”

“Yeah, okay,” Lydia says, and Derek is just watching him with an expression that, for all intents and purposes, is unreadable.

They leave the library and climb into the Camaro. Stiles guns for the back seat, but Lydia gets there first, smirking cruelly as Stiles slinks up to the passenger door. So he’s riding shotgun and Lydia’s in the backseat, and Derek has his driving face on (glaring at the road, clenching his teeth if anyone around him takes even a second too long to drive), and nobody’s saying anything. They’re making their way through downtown Beacon Hills, though the late hour on a Thursday night means the streets are pretty empty.

They pass Jungle, the gay club Stiles and Scott had wound up at the night they were chasing the kanima. And Stiles gets an idea. A really, really good idea. The best idea out of all other ideas he’s ever had. Ever.

“So, Derek…” he says slowly, smile growing rapidly, and when Derek looks at him blankly, he nods toward the club.

“No.”

“Wait, just list-”

“No, Stiles.”

“Derek, just think about i-”

Derek slams on the brakes. He turns to look Stiles directly in the face, and Stiles squirms nervously in his seat, twisting to look at the road. 

“I don’t think you’re supposed to stop here, Derek…” he says sheepishly, getting quieter every word.

“Are you done?” Derek asks.

“You’re scared to go inside a gay club,” Stiles accuses, and Derek rolls his eyes.

“I’m not scared,” he insists, “it’s just the stupidest idea you’ve ever come up with, which is really saying something.”

“I’m with Stiles on this one,” Lydia says from the back seat, “it’ll be...interesting, to say the least.”

“I don’t even know what the idea _is_ ,” Derek grumbles, “I just know that the answer is no.”

“Whoever gets more guys’ numbers wins?” Lydia suggests, and Stiles nods excitedly.

“No,” Derek says firmly, “and if you bring it up again, you can walk the rest of the way home.” Lydia snorts until Derek whips his head around and adds, “Both of you.”

“Fine,” she pouts, “but I like the idea of seeing who can get more guys. What if you both made fake online dating profiles pretending to be girls, and see which of you get more date requests or whatever?”

“That could work,” Stiles shrugs, and Derek is shaking his head again. “No.”

“Come on, big guy, live a little!” Stiles jokes, patting Derek’s shoulder.

“If it’ll get you to stop with this crap, then fine. Whatever,” he grumbles, and Stiles pumps his fist in the air.

“I’ll help you with all the internet stuff, Der Bear, don’t worry,” he giggles, ignoring Derek’s hard glare.

“Stiles,” Lydia says gingerly, “do what you will, but if it were me, I wouldn’t call him Der Bear, like, ever again.”

“Noted,” Stiles laughs nervously, pressing himself as close to the passenger door as possible in an attempt to ward off any impending physical threats from Derek, who practically has steam blowing out of his ears in the driver’s seat.

They all end up in Stiles’ room, huddling around his laptop. Stiles sets up a dating profile on eHarmony and helps Derek create his own, letting him pick the profile picture (some pretty girl he’d plucked off Google Images) and fill in the descriptions himself.

Stiles’ profile is loud and provocative, inviting and sexy. Derek’s is timid, boring, and overall pretty bland.

“There is absolutely no way I’ll lose this time,” he says matter-of-factly, looking at the two profiles side-by-side. He knows what guys like, and, more importantly, he knows how social interaction works, especially on the internet.

“I say we give it a week and check back,” Lydia says, looking between Derek and Stiles, both of whom nod in approval.

Derek and Lydia leave, and if Stiles pours over his profile, obsessively refreshing his empty inbox for another hour before he goes to bed, well, who has to know?

*

It’s the week before Thanksgiving, and the Christmas party invitations have arrived.

“Happy Howl-idays? Seriously?” Jackson groans, raising his eyebrows at Lydia.

“That was all me, man,” Stiles says, “Don’t give her the credit.”

“It’s yours,” Lydia quips.

“You couldn’t have just put ‘Merry Christmas?’” Boyd asks, like he’s personally offended.

“Hey, hey,” Stiles says defensively, “I wanted to be non-denominational. Maybe someone here is Jewish. I wanted to include everyone.”

“I’m gonna go out on a limb, here, and say you just wanted the pun,” Allison says, and Stiles just sticks his tongue out.

“Is the Christmas sweater thing for real?” Isaac asks, pouting. Stiles nods. “Of course it is! It adds to the ambiance.”

“I think it’ll be fun!” Erica says brightly, and Allison nods in agreement.

Isaac shrugs. “Whatever, not like I have anywhere else to go.”

“My mom and Stiles’ dad are going up to Lake Tahoe for, like five days, so we’re totally off the hook,” Scott smiles, and Stiles returns his hearty grin. After Sheriff Stilinski had finally found out about the werewolf activity in Beacon Hills, he’d heavily leaned on Melissa to get him through it. As a result, they’d ended up realizing they liked each other a lot, and Scott and Stiles are really just waiting for the day they’ll finally get to be brothers for real.

Everyone else signals their approval except Derek, who is, in all likelihood, working out somewhere. 

“Great,” Lydia says with a smile, and that’s that.

*

Stiles is pretty much convinced the universe is playing a cruel joke on him. He frantically refreshes his page one last time, in case the server was backed up or something, stopping him from receiving all of the messages he was positive were going to pour in on the dating profile.  
No such luck. He’s received exactly five messages, and Derek has received thirteen.

“How is that even possible?” he gripes, and Lydia shrugs. Derek is sitting at the foot of Stiles bed, evidently pleased with himself.

“Just give it up,” he says smugly, “I just proved that I’m pretty much better than you at everything.”

“Not everything,” Lydia says suggestively, and Derek’s face hardens. 

“I said no,” he answers simply.

“If you do this, Derek,” Stiles says seriously, “I promise I’ll let it go. No more challenges. Just this one last thing.”

“Aren’t you two supposed to be geniuses?” Derek grumbles, “How is it you’re completely unable to grasp the concept of the word ‘no’?”

“Methinks the werewolf doth protest too much,” Stiles says coyly, wiggling his eyebrows at a giggling Lydia, and Derek shoots him a scowl.

“No, it’s just stupid,” he says simply.

“So are you, but we keep you around,” Stiles retorts.

“I’m not doing it.”

“Fine, then admit that you think I can get more guys than you can,” Stiles says.

“Why do you think I care how many guys you can get? Or how many guys I can get, for that matter?” Derek says.

“Because it matters. And you won’t do this because you know I’ll win, and you’ll have to walk out of the club with your tail between your legs and admit that I’m more sexually appealing than you are.”

“What did I say about dog jokes?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

Derek releases an enormous sigh and closes his eyes.

“Fine.”

Stiles gasps, incredulous. “Really? You’ll do it?”

“Nobody can know,” Derek says through gritted teeth.

“Deal,” Stiles sings, trying to stop himself from running over to hug the big jerk sitting on his bed.

*

There are ground rules for taking your grumpy yet obscenely attractive Alpha to a gay club to pick up guys. Not that Stiles finds Derek obscenely attractive. Or any kind of attractive, really. But other people probably do. You know, before they get too close.

It’s two weeks until Christmas before they can arrange to go to Jungle because the Sheriff doesn’t have a night shift for a few weeks, and they figure it’d be better to go when the he’s at work, so there won’t be any uncomfortable questions.

“You’re driving,” Derek says with finality, tapping his foot in the doorway to Stiles’ room as he waits for Stiles to finish getting ready.

“Why? You have the cooler car,” Stiles counters, smoothing the last of the gel into his hair.

“Because people might recognize mine,” Derek answers.

“You have something against gay guys?” Stiles asks slowly, turning to face Derek, who immediately blushes.

“N-no, not at all. I just don’t want them to think I’m, you know, lonely and desperate,” he says with sincerity. “That’s not a good look on anyone.”

Stiles lets out a huff. “I think I pull it off pretty well.”

Derek rolls his eyes and starts to walk into the hallway. “Hurry up,” he says over his shoulder, and Stiles grabs his jacket and rushes to follow.

They pull up to the club at around eight, and can hear the music pumping from the parking lot. They review the rules they’d decided on with Lydia’s help before going inside.

“Okay,” Stiles says, “numbers only count if they’re written down and have all the digits, and names must be included so we can look them up later to make sure no one cheated. Other than that, do whatever you want.”

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Derek mutters, staring at the building like it’s a haunted insane asylum instead of a dance club.

“Yeah, yeah, just suck it up,” Stiles says, stepping forward and somehow managing to hide his nervousness, “find me at eleven, okay?” Derek doesn’t answer, just goes inside and disappears into the crowd of people and clouds of smoke and lights before Stiles can see where he went.

The second Stiles steps inside the club it’s like he’s entering a new realm. Colors are bouncing across his vision and the heavy bass of the music is making his pulse jump rope. It’s not the first time he’s been here, but it’s inherently different now. He’s older, that’s for sure, more mature, and decidedly not on a mission to save innocent people from monsters. And, though a few drunken discussions with Lydia are the closest he’s ever come to admitting it, even to himself, maybe he’s a little bit more interested in the scenery than before.

And, fuck it, he needs a drink. So he makes his way to the bar, hoping he’ll be able to seduce someone into buying him a drink. He sinks his teeth into his lips, a trick he’s seen Lydia, Allison, and Erica use thousands of times over, whenever they need to flirt their way into anything. He just hopes desperately that swollen, red lips look as tantalizing on guys as they do on girls. He takes a deep breath and goes for the first younger, attractive guy he sees, awkwardly smiling at a twenty-something guy with dark hair and pretty blue eyes.

“Hey,” the guy yells over the music, and though Stiles heard him perfectly, he cranes his neck and squints, holding up a hand next to his ear. The guy leans in closer, and Stiles can feel his breath against his neck when he repeats himself. 

“H-Hi,” Stiles answers nervously, and the guy smiles. “First time here?” he asks, still unnervingly close. Stiles nods.

“Lemme buy you a drink,” the guy laughs, “take the edge off.” Stiles flashes a grin. “Thanks,” he calls, bringing his lips agonizingly close to the guy’s ear.

He’s not sure what to expect, but he’s not entirely surprised when the guy presents him with a straight shot of tequila instead of something safe like beer. He downs it expertly, making sure to exaggerate the gulp, neck craned to bare his throat and highlight the jump of his adam’s apple.

“I’m Ben,” the guy says, and Stiles licks his lips, soaking up the last of the alcohol. “Stiles,” he manages, and Ben slides another shot into his hand.

“Oh, man, I couldn’t-”

“Don’t worry about it, really,” Ben smiles, and Stiles would probably be a little creeped out if he weren’t already starting to feel the tequila floating into his brain. He downs the second shot just like the first, slamming the glass on the counter and puckering his lips with a squint. 

“Woo!” he lets out, and Ben laughs. “Wanna dance?” he asks, and Stiles’ stomach twists, but he nods anyway, letting Ben grab his hand and guide him into the mix of sweaty bodies.

The alcohol is surging through his system, intensifying the throbbing bass and flashing lights, lasers dancing before his eyes. He’s standing in the middle of a crowd of silhouettes, shadows rubbing against one another, grinding bodies and entangled limbs. Ben, standing behind him, gingerly takes hold of his hips, and when Stiles doesn’t protest, reaffirms his grip, pulling Stiles against him. 

Stiles has never danced with a guy before. In fact, Stiles has never really danced with anyone before, not like this. But when Ben aligns their bodies, presses himself against Stiles’ back and guides Stiles with his hips, it’s like it’s natural. Stiles can already feel sweat beginning to drip down the back of his neck, and Ben is running his hands up and down Stiles’ sides, and he’s getting really into it, and--

Derek is a few feet away, dancing with some guy. Stiles stops still, confused and standing in a drunken cloud of arousal and intrigue. Ben tugs on his wrist and leans in, asking if he’s okay. “I, um” he shouts hoarsely, “I have to go, I’m sorry, I had a really, uh, good time?” he tries, wincing. Ben’s face falls. 

“Can I at least give you my number?” he asks, and Stiles nods vigorously, pulling a pen and some paper out of his pocket, shrugging at Ben’s confused look. Ben writes it down and Stiles thanks him, bolting before he does something stupid like try to shake the guy’s hand. He weaves his way through the crowd, trying to find Derek.

He finally spots him, and, Jesus, is that a different guy? Stiles stares, admittedly impressed. And then he keeps staring, because, regrettably, his eyes seem to be fixed on Derek, dark and looming, clinging to the guy pressed against him. And he imagines himself in the guy’s place, imagines Derek pressing into him from behind, grinding and dipping and panting and sweaty, and he can’t look away.

“Need a drink?”

He turns around and sees another cute, younger looking guy looking at him with pity, eyes bouncing back and forth between Derek and Stiles. “You can do better,” he says into Stiles’ ear, “the whole leather jacket look is kind of tired, anyway.” He smiles, nodding back at the bar, and Stiles, confused as all hell, just follows him.

Two more shots of tequila later, and Stiles is absolutely plastered. Fortunately, his inhibitions have left the building, leaving him unabashed and shameless, ready to flirt. He’s danced with four other guys and gotten all of their numbers, really letting go for the first time in what feels like years. His head is swimming and his hands aren’t necessarily cooperating, and his heart is jumping into his throat, but it’s sort of numbing, free and wild. He’s lost sight of Derek, but he couldn’t care less now, the stupid dickhead can dance with whoever he wants. He bets Derek hasn’t even gotten anyone’s number. Stiles has five. Stiles is, in fact, attractive to gay guys.

His eyes are closed and he dances in place, waiting for someone else to approach him. The strobe light is on and pulsing, and he can barely make sense of what’s going on around him, so he stops trying. A body presses against him from behind, and he immediately leans back, letting the music and body heat wash over him.

_Push up to my body, sink your teeth into my flesh._

The song is worming its way into his veins, manipulating his pulse, and, oh fuck, his dance partner has his hands everywhere, running up and down his sides, gripping him tight and gyrating against him, and shit, why doesn’t Stiles come here more often?

“Whassyour name,” he slurs, turning around to catch a glimpse of his partner under the strobe light. He freezes, and suddenly the tequila shots aren’t quite agreeing with him.

“Oh, fuck,” he says loudly, but Derek doesn’t even seem to notice, his eyes are closed and he still seems to be giving himself over to the music, so Stiles takes the opportunity to bolt outside, barely managing to ward off a panic attack.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit,” he’s muttering, doubled over with a hand pressed against the brick wall. He nearly pukes, but thankfully doesn't. He slides his back down the wall and ends up curled up on the gravel, head against his knees. Fuck.

He checks his phone and sees that it’s 10:15, so, bracing himself with a sizable inhale, he decides to go back inside and see if he can grab a few more numbers before his time is up, choosing to ignore what just happened.

Derek finds him at exactly eleven, politely tapping him on the shoulder while Stiles is waiting for his latest dance partner to write the last digits of his phone number.

“Whoa, sorry, dude!” the guy yells, and Stiles looks up and sees that Derek is glaring at him. He slips into the crowd and Derek looks at Stiles, pointing at the door. Stiles nods, hiding a gulp. He’s still wobbly from the tequila, and Derek rolls his eyes, slinging one of Stiles’ arms around his shoulders and helping him to the car, making it clear it’s because he’s impatient and not because he has an ounce of concern for Stiles.

“So?” he asks once they’re both in the car, and Stiles flushes deeply. Okay, so they’re going to talk about it.

“Whaa?” he tries, playing dumb.

“How many did you get?” Derek asks, expectant. Oh. _Oh_. He pulls the slips of paper out of his pockets and counts them with a smile. “Nine,” he says proudly.

Derek reaches into one of the pockets of his jacket and resurfaces with three slips of paper, and Stiles begins to laugh. “I knew it!” he cries, and does a little victory dance in the driver’s seat. Derek raises his eyebrows.

“What?” Stiles says dumbly.

Derek reaches into his other pocket and produces an enormous handful of crumpled slips of paper. Stiles’ face falls.

“How many is that?” he asks dejectedly, and watches as Derek counts them out.

“Fourteen,” they say in unison, and Derek flashes a wry smile.

“Don’t take it personally,” he says.

“Oh, shut up,” Stiles grumbles, reaching for the gearshift. Derek quickly shoots out a hand, stopping him from putting the Jeep in drive.

“What?” Stiles snaps, and Derek’s grip tightens. 

“You’re not driving like this,” he says.

“Fair enough,” Stiles concedes, “although, you could’ve said something _before_ letting me get into the driver’s seat.” Derek just shrugs, and Stiles rolls his eyes as he climbs out of the car and gets back in on the other side, seeing that Derek’s slid over so he’s now behind the wheel. They’re quiet for a while until Derek makes a left instead of going straight.

“What are you doing?” Stiles asks, “your place is that way.”

“I know,” Derek says, “but I told you, you’re not driving like this. I’ll just run home, it’s fine.”

“C’mon, Derek, that’s stupid,” Stiles says dully, shaking his head, “I’ll be fine.”  
Derek laughs dryly, but continues to drive toward Stiles’ house. When they get there, they sit for a few seconds in silence. Stiles clears his throat.

“Even if your eyes were closed, I know you knew it was me,” he says quietly, and Derek continues to stare out the windshield. “I know you could at least smell me,” he says. But Derek doesn’t say a word. Stiles shakes his head, pushing the passenger door open gently and taking care not to let it slam. He goes inside, not even bothering to wait for Derek to get out of his car.

He slumps upstairs, a splitting headache pretty much the only remnant of the alcohol in his system, and he faceplants on his bed, breathing deeply. He’s not sure why it’s bothering him, but it is, and the fact that he’s freaking out is freaking him out even more, and it’s absolutely ridiculous. He goes into the bathroom and grabs a small handful of sleeping pills, downing them with a glass of water. Stripping off his clothes, he grabs a pair of soft sweatpants and a worn t-shirt, wrestling them on and slipping into bed, pointedly not looking out the window to see if Derek is still sitting in the Jeep first.

*

“I don’t know what your deal is, but we’re not going to get anything done if you don’t focus, Stiles,” Lydia says a few days later, bringing him back from where his mind had wandered.

“Yeah, you’re right, sorry,” he says dejectedly. He hadn’t told anyone about what had happened at Jungle, and wasn’t planning on it, both for his own sake and for Derek’s.

“I won’t ask,” Lydia says gently, “but you know you can talk to me if you need to, right?” He nods, gives her a brief smile. “I know, thanks,” he says.

For the next hour and a half he throws himself into party planning, mostly offering ideas and allowing Lydia to mould them into something palpable. She eventually has a sketch put together of Derek’s loft, Christmas-ified, and he nods, sufficiently impressed.

“It looks amazing, really,” he says, and it does. There’s a Christmas tree elegantly decorated in the corner, tables of food, tinsel strung from the walls, and little sprigs of mistletoe interspersed around the room.

“Wait,” he says, pointing to the mistletoe.

“Oh, shit, you’re right,” Lydia says, shaking her head, “I’m stupid. Here.” She leans forward to erase them, and Stiles lightly grabs her wrist to stop her.

“No, hold on.”

“Stiles, werewolves are allergic to mistletoe. We can’t have it at the party,” she says, like he hasn’t personally seen werewolves throw up or find themselves in various other states of discomfort due to the plant.

“They make fake mistletoe, don’t they?” he asks, “You know, like plastic?”

She nods in agreement. “Works for me.”

“We’ll call it mistle-faux,” Stiles says thoughtfully, ignoring Lydia’s eyeroll.

“You’re an idiot,” she says.

*

It’s a week before the party, and Beacon Hills has been sufficiently transformed into a winter wonderland. Well, as much as it’s possible in California, where snow is a magic thing of far-off places.

“Oh, the werewolves inside are frightful, but this pizza is so delightful,” Stiles sings around an enormous bite of pizza, eliciting groans from around the table. Elated, he tries again. “Deck the halls with boughs of howl-ly!”

“Objection,” Lydia sighs, “you can’t use ‘howl’ again. There’s a limit on your puns.”

“On the first day of Christmas, my werewolf gave to me,” Stiles all but shouts, “a set of claws through my spleen! On the sec-”

“ _Enough_ with the Christmas songs, Stilinski,” Jackson warns, and Stiles gives him a cheesy smile.

“Jackson, the red-nosed werewolf…” he starts to sing, but then Jackson is behind him and slinging an arm around his neck. “You were saying?” he asks menacingly, and Stiles slumps, waiting for him to let go.

“Christmas is in a week, and I’m, like, the only one that’s excited about it,” Stiles pouts when Jackson releases him, rolling his eyes.

“We’re excited,” Allison assures him, “we just don’t feel the need to run around singing Christmas songs with wolfy lyrics.”

“Then you’re clearly not excited enough!” Stiles insists, standing up. “The party next week is gonna be amazing. There’s gonna be music, and food, and decorations, eggnog and stockings and a Christmas tree, and-- and mistle-faux!”

“What the fuck is mistle-faux?” Isaac snorts, and Stiles quickly spins to face him.

“Fake mistletoe, obviously,” he says, “but if you’d rather us decorate the loft with something that could kill you, I really don’t mind.”

“I’m good,” Isaac says, just as Scott asks, “Did you say the loft?”

“Yeah,” Stiles answers, “why?”

“Um, did Derek give you permission to have the party there?” Erica asks slowly, lowering her voice. They’re at Jackson’s, which means Derek is most likely working out downstairs in the mini-gym in the basement, but you never know.

“Nah,” Stiles says, waving a hand dismissively, “but it’ll be fine.”

“You might wanna ask…” Scott trails off.

“Why?” 

“It’s just...nobody really knows what Derek does for Christmas,” Allison says gently, “and, I don’t know, he might not really be into it. I would just ask to be safe.”

So Stiles heads downstairs, following the sound of grunting and clanging metal. He takes a deep breath when he reaches the doorway, trying to ignore the fact that this is the first time he and Derek have been alone or even spoken to one another since Jungle.

“What?” Derek grunts, setting an enormous barbell on the floor and turning to face Stiles.

“Uh, hey,” Stiles says awkwardly, and Derek just looks at him.

“You know, the uh, whole, um, Christmas party thing?” Stiles asks tentatively, and Derek gives a single nod.

“We were kind of, um, hoping we could, you know, host it at the loft. Is that alright?”

Derek’s face flashes something dark, but it’s gone before Stiles can really give it a name. “No,” Derek says simply.

“Are you serious?” 

“Yeah.”

“Yeah you’re serious, or yeah we can have the party at your place?”

“You’re not having a Christmas party at the loft.”

“Derek,” Stiles pleads, “come on. It’s for all of us. The pack. You don’t think we deserve t-”

“No.”

“So, what, you’re not gonna come?”

“No.”

“And why’s that? You allergic to happiness, Derek? Is that it?”

“I don’t do Christmas. Let it go,” Derek says softly, tone completely flat.

Stiles knots his fists in the hem of his t-shirt. “Is this about what happened at Jungle?” he asks, and it comes out barely louder than a whisper.

“This has nothing to do with that,” Derek says viciously, turning away from Stiles.

“Derek…”

“This has nothing to do with _you_ ,” Derek spits, and Stiles actually flinches, stung. But, just like other things have changed over the years, so has he. He’s hardened, automatically takes hurt and turns it into fuel for anger.

“You’re a fucking prick, you know that?” he says cruelly, “I was starting to think that maybe you were putting up with all of this competition bullshit because you actually enjoyed spending time with me. Because we’d finally become _friends_. But I guess it really was about beating me, after all. Well, congratulations, Derek. You won. You fucking won.”

Derek doesn’t move, still facing away from Stiles, and that’s it, really. That’s what does it. That Derek can be so utterly void of emotion, even when Stiles is nearly pulsating with it. It’s sick, and it makes him want to cry, or scream, or run up to Derek and shake him until he feels something. But Derek isn’t his responsibility, he’s made that much clear. So Stiles storms upstairs, nearly barreling into the entire pack standing in the doorway to Jackson’s basement.

They all look at him like kicked puppies, children caught with their hands in the cookie jar. He doesn’t care. It’s better that they heard, so he doesn’t have to offer an explanation.

“Party’s off,” he says shakily, pushing past them and quickly making way to his Jeep. He drives down a side road until he doesn’t think he can stand it, and he pulls over.

There’s something surging through him, something toxic and stinging, and he lets out a scream to try and force it out. He’s pounding on the steering wheel, not caring that he accidentally honks the horn a few times. The air he’s breathing tastes thin and stale, and there are tears lightly stinging the corners of his eyes, threatening to surface.

He’s livid, he’s livid and he’s hurt, he’s angry and he’s bruised and just _fuck_ Derek Hale, the stupid unfeeling asshole. Fuck him for being in the woods that day two years ago, and for pushing Stiles into walls and slamming his face into steering wheels, for listening to him like his words matter for once, and for taking him seriously when nobody else does, for humoring him and then beating him, for pressing up against him in a club and touching him in a way that nobody else ever-

Stiles screams himself hoarse on the side of the road.

*

Scott shows up at Stiles’ house every day until Christmas, but Stiles just sends him away, or sits silently until Scott gives up and leaves. Lydia tries a few times, having a little bit more insight to the problem than anyone else, but mostly she talks at him for a while and then goes, pressing a kiss to the top of his head which he doesn’t so much as acknowledge. Even Allison stops by a few times, but it’s awkward and doesn’t last long. Still, if Stiles had the common decency to say anything, he’d have thanked her for trying. Everyone stops by at least once, except Boyd, Jackson, and, of course Derek.

“Boyd and Jackson said they would’ve come, but they were pretty sure you wouldn’t have have wanted them to,” Isaac says quietly when he shows up. He sets a greasy bag of takeout from Stiles’ favorite diner on his dresser and takes the hint that Stiles wants him to go. He hovers in the doorway for a second, opens his mouth, but then closes it and leaves.

Erica tries to cuddle when she comes over, knowing that’s how Stiles cheers her up when she’s upset. He can’t even convince himself that he cares enough to make an effort, sitting stiffly in her arms when she tries to pull him close.

“He’s an ass,” she finally says, getting up, “don’t let him do this to you.” He doesn’t answer, a small shrug the only indication that he heard.

For once, Stiles thinks numbly, he’s glad his dad isn’t here. He’d been so preoccupied with packing before he left that he’d hardly noticed something was up, and, really, Stiles is happy for him. Plus, it means he gets full permission to mope around the house and he won’t hear a word about it.

*

It’s the first Christmas that Stiles can remember that he doesn’t have plans, and, even more depressingly, that he isn’t excited. The air feels stale where it would normally feel festive and bright. It doesn’t feel like Christmas.

Stiles lets out a bitter laugh when he risks a look in the mirror. There are bags under his eyes, and he hasn’t showered in probably three days, and here he is, whining that it doesn’t feel like Christmas. Moreover, he feels like a pathetic piece of shit for letting Derek reduce him to this. It’s not like they were, what, together or something. Stiles doesn’t even like Derek like that, and Derek obviously doesn’t like Stiles at all. So what is there to be upset about, exactly? He glares at his reflection, shaking his head in disgust.

And then Lydia appears in the mirror behind him, not even bothering to hide the doe-eyed pity on her face.

“Merry Christmas,” Stiles says bitterly, and Lydia’s eyes widen even more.

“Okay,” she says with finality, “this is absolutely ridiculous. I’m snapping you out of this right now.”

He turns to her, confused. 

“Get in the shower.”

“What?”

“Don’t make me do it for you,” she threatens, and he rolls his eyes. 

“Fine,” he grumbles, “but some privacy would be nice?”

She walks back into his room and sits on his bed, pulling out her phone. He closes the door behind her and strips down, turning on the water and twisting it to the hottest it’ll go. When the water heats up, he steps under the scalding spray with a soft gasp, letting it run over him. He scrubs at his skin, dirty and soapy and pale, maybe digging in a little bit harder than necessary. When he shuts off the water and opens the curtain, he sees a stack of neatly-folded clothes sitting on the bathroom counter, and he rolls his eyes.

“You know, I easily could’ve showered without closing the curtain!” he yells through his closed door.

“Whatever,” Lydia calls back, and he rolls his eyes. 

He dries himself off, puts on the clothes Lydia picked out for him, and steps into his room. She looks at him, unimpressed, and pushes herself off the bed, stepping around him and yanking him back into his bathroom. She digs through his drawers and cabinets, ignoring his sputters of protest, until she locates his hair gel. She squirts a glob into her palm, then, realizing she can’t reach his head properly, uses her clean hand to push his shoulder until he gets the hint and bends his knees. It’d be sort of funny, really, if he didn’t feel so shitty.

“Is there a point to all of this?” 

She smiles, admiring her handiwork. “You’re taking me to a party,” she says simply.

“Uh-uh. No,” Stiles says quickly, putting his hands up in protest.

“Relax,” she says, rolling her eyes, “It’s for my dad’s job. I just need a ride, but on the off-chance you’re invited inside for a minute, I want you to look presentable.”

“This is presentable?” he asks skeptically, looking down at the ugly Christmas sweater she’d selected. 

“I’m wearing one, too, see?” she replied, indicating her own sweater.

“And why can’t Jackson drive you?”

“His parents are making him to go this thing, I don’t know,” she answers vaguely, “so he dropped me off here, and I told him you could take me.”

“Thanks for asking first,” he mutters.

“Please, like you had other plans,” she scoffs.

“I do, believe it or not,” he says, and she raises her eyebrows. “I have a promising date with the entire third season of Game of Thrones, and then the 24-hour marathon of A Christmas Story starts. I’m a busy man.”

“Well, the Seven Kingdoms and BB guns will have to wait,” she says, and Stiles has to fight back his urge to hug for her making the references.

They go to the Jeep and Lydia holds her hand out.

“What?” Stiles asks, confused.

“Keys,” she answers, shaking her hand for emphasis.

“Uh, why?” he asks slowly.

“Because I know where it is, and it’s easier to just let me drive than to give you directions?” she replies impatiently, and he concedes, handing her the keys and getting in the passenger’s seat.  
She drives them downtown and Stiles stares out the window, pointedly not making conversation and shutting the radio off every time Lydia turns it on until she sighs and gives up.

She turns down a familiar street, and Stiles sits up.

“Where are we going?” he asks dubiously.

“A party, I told you,” Lydia answers.

“Lydia,” he warns, but she doesn’t say a word.

She pulls into the parking lot of Derek’s building, and she refuses to meet Stiles’ eye.

“Very funny,” he says, making sure to keep his tone flat and bored.

“Stiles,” she says softly, but he turns away. “I hate the idea of you spending Christmas like this. Both of you.” He doesn’t move.

“Stiles,” she tries again, and the pleading her voice is so gentle and small that he can’t help but look at her, and the face she’s pulling is evidently damning, because he finds himself unbuckling his seatbelt and opening the door.

He’s not sure what he’s expecting when he walks into the loft, but it’s definitely not the pack, fully dressed in Christmas attire, ugly sweaters and all, or the decorations he and Lydia had agreed upon, a 2D sketch come to life, bright and warm and beautiful. He’s not expecting the magnificent tree in the corner of the room, wrapped exquisitely with tinsel and hung with beautiful glass ball ornaments and topped off with a gorgeous, glowing star.

He’s definitely not expecting Derek Hale to be standing a few feet in front of him in a soft navy sweater with a white reindeer pattern, hands in his pockets and wearing an apologetic smile.

Everyone is staring at him expectantly, but Stiles is so utterly taken aback that he has no idea what to say.

“Uh,” is all he manages, but the pack takes that as a signal to rush toward him, grabbing whatever parts of him they can. He’s surrounded by warm sweaters and the smell of peppermint, and the smile on his face is so big he thinks he might cry from the weight of it. They stand there like that until someone coughs (Boyd, Stiles thinks), and suddenly the blob is disbanded.

“Thank you guys, I’m…” Stiles tries, but accurate words won’t come. “I don’t know what to say. And that, like, never happens, so.”

“Okay,” Erica says over the laughter, flicking the white puff on her Santa hat, “this has been sweet and all, but isn’t this supposed to be a party?”

And so it begins. Lydia runs over to the stereo against the wall and presses play, which triggers Let It Snow to float out of the speakers. Stiles takes the opportunity to look around the room, smile growing even wider when his eye catches what’s hanging at strategically-placed spots around the room.

“Mistle-faux!” he cries excitedly, laughter bubbling up from his chest. The feeling is almost foreign, and it’s unexpectedly pleasant after the past week.

“Careful, though,” Allison snickers, “same rules apply!” Scott leans in close and whispers something into her ear, which makes her giggle. Stiles stops himself from making a gagging motion because, dammit, it’s Christmas.

Lydia walks over, carrying a cupful of what Stiles can only assume is her specially-concocted Wolfsbane Punch, a recipe painstakingly figured out after the fiasco at her birthday party, once everyone realized it was pretty much a foolproof way of getting the wolves drunk. After some testing and tweaking, she’d finally figured out the correct wolfsbane-to-punch ratio, and it had roughly the same effect as a full cup of beer.

The party swings into gear from there, and, for all their griping, everyone seems to be having a really good time. The pack is laughing, eating and drinking and talking, spread out among the loft, and Stiles feels that swell in his chest again, warm and content. This is exactly what he’d had in mind when the idea had come to him in the first place.

Derek is across the room, watching over his pack like a proud parent. Stiles clears his throat quietly, so the wolves would only hear it if they were listening. Derek turns his face to follow the sound, eyes widening when he catches Stiles’ gaze. Stiles just smiles and gives a quick nod, and Derek returns it, and Stiles is content, knowing whatever happened between them doesn’t have to be dealt with right this second.

In fact, right this second, Erica is excitedly waving her hands to get everyone’s attention. She takes a huge, final gulp of her punch and hands her empty cup off to Allison, who takes it with an excited smile. She nods to Lydia, who’s still by the stereo, and Lydia scrolls through the iPod that’s hooked up the the speakers until she lands on a song and presses play.

Santa Baby starts to play, and Erica begins to dance. She mouths along to the words, shimmying and mussing up her curls, bending slow and sexy, making eye contact with every person in the room. The pack members are all different levels of intoxicated, and the tipsier ones shout out encouragements, while everyone else just laughs. She continues her seductive dance, exaggerating her facial expressions along with the words, and it’s probably the funniest thing Stiles has seen all week.

When the song is over Erica curtseys a few times while everyone claps. She runs over to Stiles excitedly, and up close he can see that her cheeks are rosy and she’s breathing hard. She starts to giggle and pulls him forward, back to where she had been dancing. A cup of punch appears in her hand and she’s all but forcing it down Stiles’ throat, and he drinks happily.

“What’s going o-”

“Just go with it,” Erica stage whispers, and Stiles stands before his friends, a little intoxicated and a lot confused. Lydia presses another button on the speakers, and Mariah Carey floats into the room.

_I don’t want a lot for Christmas, there is just one thing I need…_

“Dance!” Erica yells excitedly, and Stiles’ blushes.

“Erica, no,” he protests, but she smiles wickedly and starts to chant “Dance! Dance! Dance! Dance!” Allison joins in immediately, followed by Scott and Lydia, and then eventually everyone is cheering Stiles on, except Derek, who is watching from behind everyone, face decorated with amusement.

Fuck it, Stiles thinks. And so he dances. And he lip syncs flawlessly, holding every note for just the right amount of time. He can’t pull it off like Erica, of course, but he earns his fair share of whoops and hollers, even a couple from the guys. And, really, that’s all he could ask for. When he’s done he collapses on the couch next to Scott, who musses his hair. 

“Merry Christmas, dude,” Scott says, and Stiles grins, elbowing him in the side. “Merry Christmas,” he answers, and, yeah, things are pretty much perfect. Erica is sitting in Boyd’s lap, playing with his hands, while she discusses something excitedly with Isaac. Jackson and Lydia are leaning against the doorframe leading to the kitchen, sharing sweet kisses under a sprig of mistle-faux. Scott and Allison are cuddling against him, lazy and soft, and Derek is--

Nowhere to be found.

He sits up quickly, already feeling his blood start to boil.

“What’s wrong?” Scott asks, worried, but Stiles just gets up and walks out of the room. He climbs up the stairs, each step sharper and heavier than the last. He gets to the door to Derek’s room, which is, of course, closed, and doesn’t even bother knocking before he slams it open.

Derek is sitting on his bed, facing the opposite wall, and he jerks his head around at the sudden noise.

“What the hell are you doing?” Stiles blurts, and Derek’s eyes widen.

“What’s the matter?” he asks seriously, and Stiles doesn’t even try to hold back an incredulous, bitter laugh.

“What’s the matter?” he mocks. “What are you doing in here, Derek?”

“I’m-”

“You know what?” Stiles cuts him off. “I don’t even care. I don’t. I really only came up here to let you know that you’re an asshole. I don’t even know why I’m so taken aback by this, like it’s not so fucking typical of you.”

Derek flinches, like Stiles words actually hurt him, and, well, good. But then Derek gets up, and suddenly he’s coming at Stiles, and Stiles braces himself. But Derek doesn’t hit him, doesn’t touch him at all, just pushes past him and goes down the stairs. Stiles follows him, anger propelling him forward.

Derek keeps walking when he gets downstairs, heading toward the front door. And that’s the last fucking straw, really.

“Fuck you,” Stiles says, loudly and bitterly and with all the contempt he can physically muster. Derek freezes, turning slowly to face him.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Stiles continues, ignoring the rest of the packs’ worried stares, “fuck you, Derek. Fuck you for bringing us all together just to ditch us whenever you can, like if you push us together hard enough we won’t notice when you slip out the back door. Fuck. You.”

“You think that’s what this is?” Derek says, each word filled with disdain. 

“Yeah, I do,” Stiles maintains, and then Derek’s coming at him for real this time, stopping an inch away from Stiles’ face. “I think you’re scared,” Stiles forces out, “I think you’re terrified of letting anyone get close to you, and it’s total bullshit. Do you know how many times all of us have risked our lives for each other, you included? You refuse to admit that you have a family, Derek, and it’s not fair to the rest of us. I hate to tell you this, but you’re not the only one that’s been through shit, okay? It hasn’t exactly been easy for the rest of us, but you’re _making it harder for yourself_ by pushing us all away. So if you have no intention in actually committing to this family we all worked so fucking hard to make, then can you at least muster up the common decency to let someone fucking know, instead of trying to sneak out and hoping we won’t notice?” He’s shrieking now, red-faced and hoarse, and he can hear gasps from the pack, but he doesn’t care.

“Stiles,” Derek says quietly.

“What?” Stiles spits, narrowing his eyes.

“Look up.”

Stiles blinks at him, confused. Slowly, he raises his gaze, and he has just enough time to register a green, plastic leafy thing dangling above his head before Derek crosses the last little bit of space between them, smashing their lips together. 

“Nnnnf,” Stiles manages against Derek’s lips, but when Derek tries to pull away, Stiles follows his mouth, not letting him go. There are a couple of _Awww!_ ’s and _Oh my god_ ’s floating somewhere to his left, but they hardly register because his brain is using about 95% of its energy to make sure Stiles stays solid, and doesn’t melt into a gooey, lovesick puddle.

“Okay,” Jackson calls after about half a minute, “it stopped being cute, like, after the first few seconds.” 

Stiles giggles against Derek’s mouth, pulling back nervously. Derek’s lips are swollen and pink, and Stiles has to physically restrain himself from pulling him back in.

“Um,” he says definitively, and Derek looks at his feet, blushing profusely.

“Why don’t you two go talk things out upstairs?” Lydia says, clearing her throat.

“Yeah, uh, that sounds good,” Stiles manages, and he and Derek walk back up the stairs, avoiding eye contact.

They get to Derek’s room and sit on his bed, thighs touching slightly. Stiles is tense, not sure where to begin. Then Derek opens his mouth.

“Stiles,” he says softly, and Stiles actually feels his muscles loosen, lets his body go slack. He’s never heard Derek sound so...small before.

“I told you...I don’t do Christmas.”

“So you’ve told me,” Stiles says with a laugh.

“Listen,” Derek sighs, and his face looks pained. “My family…we always used to make a huge deal about Christmas. I haven’t--I don’t know how anymore.”

Stiles softens. “So did we, Derek. My mom went way overboard every year. This is the first time I’ve done anything remotely celebratory since she died. Usually my dad and I just exchange gifts and watch A Christmas Story a few times until we fall asleep in front of the TV. But things feel kinda different now, I guess. I feel like we’re actually some weird version of a family.”

“I know,” Derek says, “I really, really do. I guess I just hadn’t prepared myself, and instead of dealing with it, I ignored it.”

“That’s a first,” Stiles teases, and Derek snorts.

“I did like spending time with you,” Derek blurts, “it wasn’t about beating you. I honest to god didn’t expect to win, like, any of those dumb competitions. But I figured if I kept beating you, you’d keep wanting to rematch. So I tried to win, and I did.”

“Really?” Stiles asks, and his voice betrays him, coming out shaky.

“Yeah,” Derek says with a soft smile, “really.”

“Well, um, I thought of something I might finally be able to beat you at,” Stiles says quickly, and Derek raises an eyebrow.

“This is sort of something that I, um, never really expected to have an opportunity to play with someone, especially not you,” Stiles mumbles, “but there’s this game called Too Hot.”

“Never heard of it,” Derek says blankly.

“Of course not,” Stiles groans. “Well, basically, you make out-” he and Derek both flush a burning scarlet, but Stiles presses on, “and you can’t touch each other with your hands. The first person to, like, cave and put their hands on the other person loses, and the winner gets to make the loser do any sexual thing they want.”

“So I kiss you under the mistletoe for a few seconds, and all of the sudden we’re playing make-out games that may or may not lead to various sexual favors,” Derek clarifies, and Stiles’ face heats up even more.

“Uh,” he manages, and Derek smiles. 

“You’re on,” he whispers, bringing his lips to Stiles’, and everything goes a little bit hazy.

And, for the first time, Stiles Stilinski beats Derek Hale.


End file.
